I am carpin’ ’bout pain every time I go
hikin’ when I might stub my toe
and be ill, limpin’.

On a fire road I have fright
about getting a callus—that’d be a plight:
callused, callus malice.

And I won’t go too fast; I rue and worry
about my knees and strollin’ far.
Snivel when a hill’s too big or in a damp glade,
snivel ’bout back woes and all the falls I’ve made.
You’re gonna hear me scream, cry, and whine—
’bout shoulder misaligned.
’cause I’m wimpin’ when I’m movin’.

I always bitch when there’s wind; thank god no sleet
ever comes this way, and they’re hurtin’, my feet.
That’s the drill: wimpin’.

It’s a struggle to cope with my jokes; I let ’em go
to my hiking companions; the tropes will vex ’em so…
wish I’d be still.

And I won’t go too fast; I rue and worry
about my femur and bone spurs.
Snivel when a hill’s to big or in the cool shade,
snivel ’bout back woes, seeking Big Pharma’s aid.
You’re gonna hear me wheeze, cry, and whine—
chastisement is condign,
because it’s wimpin’s that I’m doin’.